The Ice
by Itarille
Summary: For those who march on the Helcaraxe, the ice becomes more than mere water. Though the fortunate escape, the ice, and the gruelling journey across it, will haunt them forever. A collection of drabbles.
1. Elenwe

Disclaimer: All credit for this goes to the Professor.  
  
Thanks to Tehta for betaing these for me.  
  
~  
  
We are all made of water. It is part of us. It runs through our veins as it does through streams, smooth, graceful, gently flowing. It is what keeps us alive. Here, on the Helcaraxë, the water has frozen inside us. We who march are made of ice.  
  
The others view the ice with hostility. They fight it; fight the urge to join it, to become the ice, here where the water is so strong. Yet the ice is not our enemy. Do you think it could not crush us if that was what it wanted? No, it allows us to pass. We are kin, the ice and we.  
  
Can you not hear it? Can you not hear the song of the ice? It sings to me. There is no pain in the ice. There is no more cold, for it will reach out and envelop me.  
  
They fear it, so they tried to stop me. They do not understand. Yet I stole away, when they were not watching. I curl up in the ice now, hugging my knees to my chest, like a babe inside his mother, protected, content, unburdened by the world. I can hear it as I drift off to sleep, telling me of the bliss that will come. I drift away from pain as I listen, losing myself in the song of the ice. 


	2. Fingon

We were valiant that day, the wind whipping our hair, and we knew that someday they would sing of us. We knew not whether the songs would depict us as good or evil, but we knew they would dub us glorious and splendid as we stood there and defied the Valar. We were fearless that day, and so we chose the ice. Yet we forgot to take account of the ice itself.  
  
For the ice is an entity, just as I am. It watches us with resentment, the invaders who came from the west. Had we been safely in Tirion, I would have laughed at the idea, but here, where the world ends and begins all at once, I cannot deny it.  
  
It is doing all in its power to stop us. The wind howls, storms brew, and the ice breaks beneath our feet. It wants us to go home, to leave it be. To be fair, it was here before we were, perfect, endless, unbroken. What it does not understand is that we cannot go back.  
  
For ice does not understand pride. 


	3. Aredhel

They would have kept her from seeing her mother. It is not a sight for a child to see, they said, and they are right. But there are no children on the ice. She may be young, but she has grown up quickly. She deserves to see.  
  
She is quiet when I put her down in front of the body. She simply stares. I do too. The corpse is stiff and frozen, covered with frost. The eyes, looking straight ahead, have begun to freeze over. It is a horrifying sight. They seem almost as if they are empty, yet at the same time, as if all the knowledge in the world is contained in them. Itarillë begins to wail now, a high, keening sound that echoes in the stark landscape.  
  
"When we are off the ice, you can pick some flowers for her," I say gently, trying to offer comfort to her, and to myself. She looks up at me, eyes wide, tears dripping down her face, making little hollows in the ice beneath our feet.  
  
"I do not remember what flowers look like, Auntie," she says softly. I try to summon a description, but to my horror, I can barely recall flowers, so plentiful in Valinor. All I can remember is ice. 


	4. Galadriel

In Valinor, I was beautiful. Entire songs were composed for me. My hair was compared to the light of Laurelin, to the wing of a dove, to flowers, to everything and anything. I had an endless supply of admirers, proper young elvish gentlemen who wrote dreadful poetry, and went into raptures over my every feature. I mock them now, but I cannot say I did not enjoy them at the time. Perhaps I even loved them, not as individuals, but as one being, a nervous, adoring creature, eternally bowing, mesmerized by my hair.  
  
My tresses are tangled now, covered in ice and hail. The color is muted, no longer reflecting rays of light. There is no more flattery. On the ice, we are all the same. Every one of us walks hunched over. Faces are grey, clothing is grey, and hair is grey. There is no color. There are no differences, no advantages, and no disadvantages either. We are selfless now. We love freely. We give away food and warm clothing to those who need them more, and when that is gone, we give ourselves.  
  
It is a leveler, the ice. I have become my people, and they have become me. The ice has taught me what beauty is. 


	5. Turgon

The woman walking beside me murmurs to herself. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she says quietly, mercy, mercy, mercy. There is a certain rhythm to it. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she beseeches the emptiness. I do not know her. Perhaps she has lost someone too. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she repeats. I can not bring myself to ask. I do not want to hear of any more death and suffering.  
  
Mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy. I do not know who she asks. The Valar, who we have forsaken, us, who march beside her without asking, the ice itself? Mercy, mercy, mercy, she says still. Her voice is becoming hoarse. It is either faith or foolishness that makes her repeat it, over and over again. Or perhaps they are the same. I would not know.  
  
Yet I do know that it is in vain. There is no mercy. Not here. 


	6. Finrod

The hunters have killed a boar. It is a skinny, pathetic creature, its ribs showing through matted fur. It has scarcely enough meat on its bones to feed two people, let alone hundreds. Yet it is the first creature we have seen, here on the ice. The hope it has given us nourishes us more than the meat will.  
  
They roughly throw the carcass into the snow. I cannot help but pity the animal. After all, we know what it is like to be alone, numb from cold and pain. But only the strong survive here. There can be no guilt on the ice.  
  
They begin to cut the pig open, and I kneel down to help. Beads of blood dot the snow now, crimson blotches that I find oddly beautiful. The blood is warm still, and the ice begins to melt beneath them, forming small pools of red liquid.  
  
I stare, transfixed. So blood triumphs over ice. We are stronger than the ice. We will endure. 


	7. Fingolfin

I can see trees in the distance. We all know what this means. We have made it. After all this time, we have done it. The children, those who can still walk, climb down from their mothers' arms and run ahead. We watch, but we do not run. We will march in as those who will not be so easily cast aside again.  
  
The ice has begun to melt in patches. The reign of the cold has finally ended. Some walk straighter, some smile, and some have renewed strength in their eyes. We have escaped.  
  
I look back once, and only once. Ice stretches as far the eye can see, cold and glittering. No matter how we spend the rest of our days, we will see it sometimes, in our minds. The cold will never really leave our veins. The ice will haunt us, calling softly to us always. It is part of who we are. We shall never forget, nor shall we ever be the same.  
  
I turn my eyes forward again as we march, more quickly now, the return of hope strengthening us. The horizon approaches. 


End file.
